The international photographer (Jan-Dec 1935)

March, 1935 The INTERNATIONAL PHOTOGRAPHER Five S0ryJa» fin '■a Oval at left: Without chute or barrier, the camels squat in perfect alignment and await the starter's gun. The accoutrements of a racing camel consist merely of a crude wooden saddle over the hump of the animal, and around the head a braided rope fastened below the mouth in "Y" fashion. Circle at right: Native camel racers prepare their entries for the next race at the Luxor Gymkhana Club. The burnus and the kaftan are the only stable emblems of these jockeys. Center: Native donkey boys line up for "face to tail" race. My alfalfa No. 6 donkey seemed to have a sardonic glint in his eyes as he looked in my direction. I looked out at the race course ... it is a well tailored turf oval, without chute or barrier. The camels for the race were being walked around under the critical eyes of the judges in the pergola. The camels line up on an imaginary starting line. The race is twice around the course, about eight furlongs. These camels are no morning glories, fresh and dewy at the post, but rather withered looking under the hot glaring afternoon sun. The handlers have difficult)" lining up the ornery, snarling mounts. The accoutrements of a racing camel consist merely of a crude wooden saddle over the hump of the animal, and around the head a braided rope fastened below the mouth in a Y fashion. To this is fastened a single rein, part chain and part rope. At the betting ring the ticket chopper addressed me in perfect Mayfair English: "Here you are, sir, here you are! What is your choice, sir, in this race? Bet them and let them run !" I picked number six camel. He has a sarcastic leer on his rubber edged lips as they hang open. The process of backing him up in line seems to irritate him considerably — his flat, spatulate feet hold the turf as if they were glued down. After several vigorous hindquarter whacks the camel dropped to his knees like a dock dredger hitting placid waters. The tension was exciting, almost as thrilling as a thoroughbred start. The starter with a pistol in hand cried: "All cl'ar!" Bang! Up sprung the camels in unison like a wave of a backwash. "They're off!" A roar burst forth from the crowd. 1 caught the hysteria of the race. Up went my temperature. In my veins the blood flowed faster than Nile water over the first cataract. How these camels can run ! Lotus Flower is out in front ! Look at Cleo's long stride ! Where's Achmed ? Achmed can't win, he's bottled ! Find your jockey if you can, look for his number, as there are no jockey colors in camel racing. No bright colors fly with the mounts . . . no satin shirts bear vivid stable emblems. Burnous and kaftan, soiled b\ Nile muck, are the habiliments of these riders. The camels are bunched in the turn. "Come on, Cleopatra!" There is plenty of roughness in this contest. Bumping and ricochetting across the track is legitimate. The idea is to get your camel home. Here comes my camel ! Out of the dust on the turn, another camel is coming up to give my No. 6 challenge. Long legs beat the air. The right arm of my camel jockey begins to raise ; the long whip falls as he plies it to the camel's flank. They are in the stretch ! With kangeroo hops, side lopes and gyrating speed they come thundering home. Plead with your camel! Pray to Allah! "Come on, six !" Flaring nostrils speed by, heads bobbing, necks outstretched, the ungainly legs flying out at oblique angles. Th rotten luck ! . it's letharII I e camels are coming! 1 he stands cheer unrestrained, bellowing voices yelling until it becomes a solid phalanx of sound like summer thunder. The camels go past the finish line. What a close race. Take a surreptitious glance at the number board. Second ! My camel was second . . . necked out . . Settle down, smoke an amber cigarette . gic to the nerves. It is only a race, after Fifty piastres out. Got to recoup. A jovial sport standing at my elbow cried, over-brimming with joy: "I say, I had the bloomin' winner! A sterling run, eh, wot?" I left the stand. A cluster of natives were arguing in Egyptian. I found my dragoman. I asked him: "What is your favorite in the next race. You know all the camel men? My 'jeloppy' ran second in the last race and my money was on his proboscis. I want to recoup." "You want to recoup," he said. "Try donkey race next. I personally will ride my special donkey, No. 6. He sure win — put your money on me. My donkey pretty fast . . . him rest two days now . . . eat lots alfalfa." "Okay," I said. Nine donkies appeared on the track devoid of any kind of saddle or rein, wearing only a cool complacent expression on their sanguine unkempt features. Ho! What a dumb bunch of thoroughbreds! To my surprise the riders mounted the animals backwards. What kind of a race is this . . . face to tail? This must be some sort of vaudeville entr'acte sandwiched in to pacify the pangs of lost piastres of the last race, I thought. How well these Egyptians know how to enter (Turn to Page 20) Please mention The International Photographer when corresponding with advertisers.